Torchwood belongs to the BBC, Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon
He should have died in a cave deep underground.
He should have died in a city of glass and steel and stone.
Instead, he found himself in a 51st century (not his.) On an earth where demons had never ruled, where evil had never haunted the night. Alive, human, courtesy of a prophecy, he’d never wanted (hadn’t deserved.)
He went a little crazy then (but he’d always been a little crazy after all.)
When he heard the Time Agency was recruiting, it seemed the thing to do for a man with his skill set. Seemed he had forgotten the lessons of the Initiative too soon. (They never realized he only killed the bad apples of the bunch.)
Then he met him, a beautiful blue-eyed man (boy, they were all children to him these days), with an easy manner and a wide grin. (The only one that could control him they said.) And it was good for a while.
When he met him again after years (centuries) and saw time (pain) in his eyes, (eyes so like his own), he knew he was going to do something stupidly, stupidly self-destructive. (That had always been his MO, doing stupid self-destructive things.)
He should have died.
His dark lady.
His golden goddess.
His beautiful, beautiful blue-eyed boy.
They always left him in the end.
He had always been love’s bitch.